In my white shirt...

The subtle glow of dawn climbing over the mountains of concrete and steel and glass that is Mexico City melts into the perpetual amber hues of the morning that hangs above us, giving the lucky few - and the unfortunate many - a glimpse of what the foundation of Heaven is made of. I went out for my morning walk and tried to work out some ideas and plot out some schemes rolling around in my head but there is the whispers you left dangling on the edge of a dream like the phantom lyrics to some song I once heard in a filthy, smoky bar in Tokyo... but... what was that melody... I can’t recall... was it Dusty Springfield... or Gladys Knight...? I don’t know... but I remember Ayumi whispering the same words to me through the crackle of a broken stereo and the murmur of a drunken crowd... and those words... “besame... besame otra vez...” Yes, she spoke Spanish, and just as you did early this morning before you left me for whatever hero you leave me for in your dreams, she would say those very words... and like you... she would never remember the last kiss of the night... but it is something more than those words that all the women whom I gave the best of me to have in common - and they did also say those words in one language or another - that thing that made them mine... the turning point in the relationship that puts all doubts to rest... the moment she makes my shirt her own.

I have lost pens and watches and an assortment of trinkets I have collected around the world to the many women that have come and gone... but more than pieces of my soul I have lost some of my very most favorite button down shirts to the loveliest women in the world... and perhaps, without any surprise to me, many of those shirts met their demise in a ritual fire of a voodoo ceremony designed to raise the ghosts of love forsaken to chase me from one beach to another only to abandon me before the sun comes up as I have done to so many others myself... and I am sure many of those shirts met the cold steal of kitchen knives and scissors to turn into dust rags and window cleaners... but ahh... what wonderful shirts they have been... crisp cotton and linen... and buttons of mother of pearl... the many shades of blue and the stripes of white that raced down my sleeves like a skiers tracks down the Alps... some textures and weaves I will never be able to replace... the shirts I had made in Hong Kong and Singapore and my last Ascot Chang... Armani and Ellis... Calvin Klein and Hugo Boss... Ralph Lauren and Geoffrey Been... and those classic Arrow and Hathaway white shirts...

If it is true that we are given a vision of the history of our lives in the moments before we die, let those visions for me be a parade of the women that seduced me in nothing more than my white button down shirt with a straight color and her black stockings... and diamonds or sapphires hanging from her ears... with vodka on her breath and Chanel seeping through the valley between her breasts... From Sao Palo to Macau... and every port of call From San Francisco to Tierra Del Fuego... Sweet Lord... give me one more night with all of them before you throw your chains around me and hang me from my feet over the fires of hades... but most of all Holy father, give me all the nights I have left between the legs of only one... that one with skin of alabaster and eyes of fine amber... the skinny fragile one with the mole on the side of her left hip... the girl with the thin lips that tremble when she kisses me and moves her tongue across my lips as if every kiss she gives me is the first kiss she ever gave... and let every kiss always be like the first kiss... that girl that whispers gentle words to me as she drifts off to sleep in my white shirt and her black stockings... give me the nights I have left to write out verses on her back... to draw little butterflies and colibri up and down her spine... and leave the traces of my lust on the back of her neck and the small of her back... If tonight be our last night together... have room service fill our room with chocolate cake and a case of Johnny Walker... bowls filled with strawberries covered in sugar and Chet Baker recordings... If tonight she doesn’t drive a steak knife into my heart... then let us live it all again tomorrow...

I look up from this computer screen to see that the dining room is beginning to fill up with more early birds. This City is truly one of the Great Capitals of the world... I see the German business man wrapping up his phone call to Hong Kong... it is so obvious, as I too checked in on the Hong Kong Market before I left my room this morning... there is the little old Frenchman sitting at his usual table lost in a dream... he smiles at every one but his eyes have given up on life and I wonder if he simply just came here to wait to die... how long has he waited to be reunited with the one that left him behind. The Chinese students that occupy the fourth floor will be down in an hour but the Italian girls down the hall from us wont be up till noon... my waitress has Asian eyes and her skin is losing its tan... losing the last traces of Summer in Mexico - perhaps the scent of Acapulco or Isla de Carmen lingers on her wrist - I have caught her in moments looking at the little Frenchman with sadness in her eyes... does she think the same thoughts I think when I see him as well?

You wont read this until you get back to El Paso and open your e-mail... I will be in Panama - thinking of you and sorting out memories and conversation we haven’t had yet... listening for your whispers in another strange hotel room. The sun is trying to break through the windows and the sound of the morning shift is beginning to fill the streets outside... I will go up stairs and crawl back into bed with you... and wait for you to rise and wander around the room looking for nothing in particular like a doe in the woods wondering how it got there... in my white shirt... and your black stockings... dragging what’s left of my soul on the floor behind you...